


Dust

by Impressioniste



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Death, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-04
Updated: 2014-03-04
Packaged: 2018-01-14 12:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1265755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impressioniste/pseuds/Impressioniste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders and Hawke are accosted by mercenaries. Dark, depressing deathfic. Postgame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of some fairly old fic.

Anders doesn't see it when Hawke goes down.

They've been walking for hours, taking advantage of the long summer days to cover as much ground as possible before dark. When darkness finally falls, they realize they are still at least a full day's walk from any meaningful source of shelter, so they keep walking, plodding along the dusty, travel-worn roads, sometimes ducking off into the trees when they hear the hushed, whispering voices of other travelers that dared to be out and about at such an unholy hour.

"Maybe we should stop for the night…" Hawke offers quietly as they huddle together in the shadows against a clump of sad-looking trees at the side of the road, waiting for the sounds of the cart that had just passed them by to fade away into the night.

"We'll be sitting ducks." Anders' eyes are ringed by dark circles, and the lines in his forehead seem so much sadder and deeper, so much more pronounced when his face was taut with exhaustion.

"I can keep watch." Hawke is tired, too, but he knows that Anders hadn't slept at all since they left Kirkwall, and that was days ago.

"No," Anders refuses the offer immediately, his voice hard and resolute. "We need to move."

Hawke smiles bitterly to himself as he realizes that this is quite possibly the most they've spoken to one another in days, apart from absolute necessities like, "Which way is north?" and, "Keep watch, I need to take a piss."

He's wanted to say more, but every time he's tried, every time he's looked Anders in the eye and opened his mouth to speak, the words have died on his lips, disappearing before he can speak them. 'I love you' just seems so meaningless now, in light of everything else, even if it is the truth.

Anders takes off back onto the road the moment it is clear and quiet again, and Hawke trudges grudgingly along behind, trying to think of some persuasive argument that he can use to get Anders to stop and rest, if only just until daylight. They keep walking, blundering along through the darkness, each of them lost deeply inside his own thoughts.

Neither of them hears the group of mercenaries approaching until it's too late.

The previously quiet path is filled with the sounds of battle as four men clad in dark leathers and hoods descend upon them, surrounding them two by two, flanking them, their blades glinting ominously in the moonlight.

Anders doesn't see it when Hawke goes down—he's too busy swinging his staff in a wide arc, trying to keep his own attackers at bay, and Hawke is too far behind him, out of his line of sight.

He breathes in mana and breathes out magic, as easily as breathing air. The natural elements are at his command, his magic striking out at the mercenaries with unbelievable efficacy even in his physically exhausted state, but by the time that he has them lying dead at his feet in a heap of twitching, charred flesh, he's nearly ready to collapse.

Anders leans on his staff and calls for Hawke, but all he can hear is the sound of a body hitting the ground, and when he's finally able to focus and squint through the darkness behind him, he sees only two figures standing, and neither of them is Hawke.

Anders doesn't see it when Hawke goes down, but he sees the men standing over him with their blades bright with blood and he knows. Without warning, the fires inside him ignite, and when they advance on him, too, he cannot hold back his fury.

The rest of the battle is only a blur, his memories lost in the pull of the Fade that consumes him, and when he comes to, he's cradling Hawke in his lap, frantically pressing his fingers against the hot gush of blood pouring from his neatly slashed throat, keeping pressure on the wound while clumsily unraveling a length of bandage from his forearm, with his one free arm and his teeth, but he can't get it quite loose enough to pull it free.

The mercenaries, what little is left of them, lay dead at their feet, nothing more than piles of scorched, bloody bits of flesh and bone; Anders is covered in blood, none of it his.

He breathes in mana but his spirit is drained dry, and he breathes out only dust. Hawke paws weakly at his hands, looking for something, anything to hold on to. He tries to speak but only gurgles, a sick, wet, choking sound that fills Anders with dread right down in the pit of his stomach.

"Don't talk," Anders says, his fingers sticky with blood. "You'll be fine."

He knows it's a lie before he's even finished saying it. Hawke's life is bleeding out between his fingers, and there's nothing he can do to stop it. He has no magic. No mana. No potions. No poultices. 

No time.

Hot, heavy tears pour down his cheeks before he can even try to hold them back, leaving wet, red trails down his face as they smear and smudge the bloodstains.

Hawke knows it's a lie, too, but he stops trying to talk and raises his hand instead, brushing Anders' bloody stubble with his fingertips. His eyes are dull and droopy and his skin is clammy; he looks ghastly pale in the moonlight.

With the darkness edging in heavily around him, Hawke realizes dimly that the words that seemed so meaningless earlier are the only things that haven't vanished completely from his mind, shining brightly against the blackening void, truer to him now than ever before. And even though he knows that no sound will follow, his lips move to speak them one more time.

His fingers fall away from Anders' face, lingering for just a moment before his hand thuds against path beneath them, kicking up a cloud of dust. His lips slowly twist into a drowsy, distant smile as his chest rises and falls with a single soft, shaky sigh.

The dust around them settles, and in that breath, he's gone.


End file.
